Exit Interviews
by Casira
Summary: Now complete! Susan, in between jobs; a stranger, in between planes of existence; and a few lessons for the teacher-to-be....
1. Chapter 1

_(Note: now complete! Four chapters in total.)_

So here we go again, with the start of another idea that won't leave me alone. :) 

Here's another of my favorite Discworld girls, Susan, in a tale inspired by wondering what transpired between _Hogfather_ and _Thief of Time_ for her to leave her job as a governess and take up teaching. Sometimes, leaving a responsibility behind isn't an easy thing to do...

Not complete yet, but with my new Discworld Family Values poster on the wall above my desk, and Susan's entire family scrutinizing me as I sit here, I imagine I won't be able to leave it alone for too long. :) Thank you, Mr. Kidby, for the added inspiration....

(Again, any footnotes are positioned relatively closely to the associated paragraphs for ease of scrolling.)

* * *

This, Susan thought grimly as she stared at the letter, was all her grandfather's doing.

She hadn't asked for this job. She'd never even considered pursuing it, before he put the gears in motion. Like most of the other strange things thrust upon her over the past several years, like talking ravens and skeletal rats and even self-styling hair (which wasn't entirely a nuisance, but was decidedly odd nevertheless), _choice_ was not a part of the package. Family obligations simply seemed to take over.

And hers was not an ordinary family.

She sank back into the armchair that sat in one corner of her bedroom. The Gaiters, her current employers, had conspired to make the little room cozy. In their definition, this had extended to frilly bed trimmings and doilies, overly plush rugs, flower-patterned glass on the gas lamps, and a wardrobe with suspiciously pink accents. It wasn't tacky, precisely, just -- overeager. They had been remarkably quiet about the changes Susan had subsequently made, which leveled out the color palette and stripped the room of its unnecessary trimmings. She had, however, kept the chair. The chair was comfortable. On nights like this, she needed the chair.

The letter she was gripping in her left hand meant she'd have to give up the chair, and the room, and the Gaiters, because the letter was offering her a new job. But for once, considering what her grandfather usually got her into, it was a perfectly sensible job -- and that was somehow the hardest thing to swallow.

In the back of her mind was the nagging memory of the conversation, just a fragment really, that had started all this:

_TELL ME, ARE YOU LIKELY TO TAKE UP TEACHING ON A LARGER SCALE?_

_"I hadn't planned to."_

Hadn't planned to, no. But here was the letter of acceptance from the Frout Academy, which she'd received this afternoon -- after an interview with the headmistress during which, Susan had to admit, she'd presented herself as the perfect person to fill the open position. She felt somehow responsible about it. Walking into the school and talking to the instructors, with their perpetual naivete about how to handle the darling children in their classes, * had left her with the unshakable urge to Straighten It All Out. She'd even taken a certain pleasure in speaking with another young teacher -- oh, dear, it was already _another_ teacher -- in the hallway, who'd merrily said, "I always strive to encourage children to the best of their abilities," and then stared back at Susan as she calmly pulled the rug out with, "Oh, I always encourage them _beyond_ their abilities. I find that very often they get there." 

And as quickly as that, she'd gotten _herself_ into this. 

Which meant, she thought with a sigh as she looked away from the letter and toward a small portrait of Gawain and Twyla by her bed, she'd have to get herself out of this one.

[ * ...these darlings being the sort that tormented the awkward children, mocked the teachers, and generally arranged it so they got as much of an education as they'd have received by staying at home and studying the carpet.]

"Oh, my," was, perhaps not surprisingly, the first thing Mrs. Gaiter said.

"Yes," her husband said distantly. "Well."

Susan sighed and waited for a reply that lasted more than one syllable. It took a few moments for this to occur, which gave her a chance to look around the study.

She'd been in here a handful of times, but she wasn't that familiar with the details. At one glance she took in the small library -- more frequently dusted than it was used -- and the drinks cabinet, then the desk with its clutter of business papers, and the massive painting above it of a hunting expedition, which was clearly there to present an air of class. It was all, for this family, a bit predictable. In fact, the most unusual sight in this room was Mr. and Mrs. Gaiter being present at the same time. They had hired Susan as a governess because their social and business circles so frequently kept them from the home, and, more often than not, each other; Susan sometimes wondered how the children had been born in the first place.

That was, come to think of it, almost solely how they were being referred to in this conversation -- just "the children." Susan began to grit her teeth after the third occurrence. They _did_ have names.

"Well. Have you -- have you told the children about this?" Mrs. Gaiter asked.

"Not yet. I wanted to speak with you first, of course."

"Naturally. Yes." Mr. Gaiter managed the two words, then fell silent for a moment before continuing. "May I ask why you'll be leaving us?"

Mrs. Gaiter jumped in, her eyes slightly wide. "Is it... a family matter?"

Susan resisted the urge to sigh again. She knew what was meant. The Gaiters had always been in awe of Susan's lineage -- the publicly-known part of it, at any rate -- because she was, after all, a duchess. They were still a bit stunned by her apparent lack of concern over this. The Gaiters were desperately ambitious to raise their own standing, and never knew what to make of the fact that once they got there, they might run into more people like Susan. It wasn't at all what they had been expecting. She sometimes felt she ought to put on a bit of a show, just to reassure them.

The last question they'd asked her, though, was a bit tricky to answer. Susan eventually settled for, "Not directly. My grandfather recommended me for a teaching position."

In person, no less -- well, personification, anyway, Susan thought, her lip twitching. What a scene _that_ must have been for Madam Frout. Most people, knowing perfectly well that Death did not actually walk about the Disc on two bony legs, simply refused to see this when he approached to speak to them. * They merely assumed that the man was dreadfully thin, poor thing, must be somewhat ill, but he's a... compelling speaker, isn't he, and hasn't it gone a bit cold in this room?

[ * This was true when he wasn't actually there to collect them, of course. During that final conversation, perception becomes much clearer. ]

Mrs. Gaiter, without Susan's knowledge of the strangeness of that recommendation, latched onto the part she immediately understood. "Teaching," she repeated. She looked at her husband, who glanced back and shrugged a bit helplessly. Yet another un-duchess-like thing to do, they were no doubt thinking. "Erm... which school?"

"The Frout Academy," Susan replied.

"Good school," Mrs. Gaiter said absently. "I'd considered it once for the children...."

"Bit wishy-washy, though, with that Learning Through Fun business."

Susan, who had considered much the same thing on seeing it in practice, nevertheless tensed at the inherent insult.

Mrs. Gaiter, who was apparently used to offhand comments like this from her husband, ignored it, blinked and asked, "And when will you be starting there?"

"The term begins at the beginning of next month. I've agreed to report in two weeks for orientation."

They both nodded, looked at each other, and finally back at Susan. Mrs. Gaiter managed, "Well, we'll be very sorry to see you go... I imagine the children will miss you dreadfully...."

Susan, who'd been trying not to think about that, suddenly found it difficult to do anything except nod in reply. And then, as the Gaiters trailed off and began to look at each other again, more nervously this time, Susan took the opportunity to excuse herself from the conversation.

Neither of her employers noticed that this did not involve leaving the room.

Susan merely drummed her fingers on the chair arm for a moment, then rose from her spot across the desk from the Gaiters. They were already talking animatedly, completely oblivious to their ex-governess-to-be, who had exercised one of her family talents and simply vanished from sight. 

She watched them in debate there, growing ever more tense as the conversation tone escalated. If the Gaiters could have seen her, they would have noticed three faint, scratch-like lines appear on her cheek beneath the incipient flush.

"I don't know who we're going to find on such short notice, really I don't --"

"There's that Tracy girl we spoke to last month, while visiting the Foster's; she was looking for a new job, remember?"

Susan did. She'd met her. She was looking for a new job because she was ready to be fired from her existing one, and no wonder.

"I wasn't convinced she would be worth it. Perhaps we could put out an advert again...."

"And go through another round of interviews, and Gawain barging in and interrupting each time to ask if she liked horses, or what her opinions were about giving out treats, or what she was prepared to do about the monsters under the bed...."

_"Depends on what sort," Susan had replied smoothly, to the Gaiters' horrified surprise, and Gawain's rapt attention. "A bogeyman, for instance, can be defeated with a blanket...."_

"She's disabused them of most of those notions, anyway," Mr. Gaiter muttered. "Although they're awfully peculiar about that poker."

"I don't know -- I just don't know," Mrs. Gaiter said, passing one hand over her face. "We'll just have to start looking, and start looking quickly."

Susan grimaced. The thought of them hurrying into any decisions on this made her nervous. In fact, the prospect of anyone else looking after (she winced as she thought it) the children made her nervous. There was that Responsibility thing nagging at her again -- that worry that whoever else was in line wouldn't do it properly.

She eventually turned away. If she listened to much more of this conversation, she'd start having second thoughts. She walked out of the room to go check on the -- on Gawain and Twyla one more time, who were safely tucked into bed, and, as Susan saw when she peeked underneath the beds and into the wardrobe, still alone in the room. And then she went downstairs for her coat, and headed outside.

If anyone could have watched her go, they might have noticed that in her state of agitation, she hadn't bothered to open a door once.

---- To be continued, as Susan tries to go out for a quiet drink and instead gets set off on a side project from her grandfather, which doesn't _quite_ take her mind off things.... 


	2. Chapter 2

And here we have Part 2... the plot thickens!

The oblique reference to Vimes, incidentally, is one I couldn't quite resist. It's a nod to a throwaway line in _The Fifth Elephant_, and for that matter, another grim little allusion in _Night Watch_. Ten points if you can identify the quotes.

* * *

The patrons of Biers, a drinking establishment catering to a broad selection of species and vital groups, were, to put it mildly, used to the unusual. But the dark-hooded figure before the dartboard was inviting a good deal more attention than usual.

It wasn't so much that people wanted to look at him -- in fact, they kept finding their eyes sliding slightly away -- but something about the way he unerringly got a bullseye with every single toss demanded a good, long stare.

After a few flawless rounds, the figure shrugged and turned away to give someone else a shot. IT'S REALLY NOT THAT MUCH OF A CHALLENGE, he said to the young woman before him, who had made it partway across the room and had been taking off her coat when she'd seen him, and... well, in the words of cliches, stopped dead.

"What -- what are you doing h...."

DARTS, said Death, not seeing the looks on the other patrons' faces, as they picked up the darts and stared at them as if they were bewitched. I MEANT TO TRY IT AFTER OBSERVING A GAME AT THE YARD. HIGHLY CURIOUS. THE TROLL OFFICER SEEMED DETERMINED TO POUND HIS DART DIRECTLY THROUGH THE WALL. I UNDERSTAND NOW, AT LEAST, THAT THIS IS GENERALLY NOT THE OBJECTIVE.

Susan blinked up at her grandfather, then at the dartboard. She had a strong suspicion that whatever type of dartboard the policemen possessed, it wasn't made of... these particular materials. She stared at the taut beige material, which wasn't fabric, and shut her eyes, hearing herself ask for some reason, "Why were you lurking around there?"

I KEEP A RATHER CLOSE WATCH ON THEIR COMMANDER, he said, and paused. Susan looked up again. He seemed to be waiting for something. WATCH? GET IT? IT'S A....

"Ha, ha," Susan said flatly, and slumped onto a barstool. She sat there very still for a moment before groaning and hiding her face in her hands as she leaned against the table. Her left elbow landed in something sticky. She didn't want to know what it was. 

Behind them was the sound of an incipient scuffle as a still-nervous ghoul tossed a dart, missed, and then found himself apologizing profusely to the zombie whose shoulder stitching he'd quite neatly split apart. 

Susan listened to them start to argue and winced. Her grandfather had taken no particular notice of the trouble he'd started. They weren't mortals, and therefore not his direct concern... so, she had to wonder: "Why are you here?" she asked, her voice muffled behind the heels of her hands.

I CAME TO CONGRATULATE YOU ON YOUR NEW JOB, he said. 

Susan dropped one hand, still leaving the other before her eye, so the image of the skeletal figure before her was partially filtered between the bones of her own hand.

"Thank you," she said, with less grace than was probably warranted. "And I came to get a drink. I don't suppose you'd be interested."

THE POINT OF ALCOHOL, AS I UNDERSTAND IT, IS TO HELP YOU FORGET THINGS. I HAVE RATHER TOO MUCH TO FORGET FOR IT TO DO ME ANY GOOD. He looked down at his granddaughter, managing a small note of concern. BUT YOU ARE TRYING TO ERADICATE SOMETHING?

Susan looked at him, then waved over a waiter and ordered a gin & tonic. He went off without making any fuss over her guest. The staff of Biers, after all, was paid well not to notice much.

"I'm just trying," she said, "to wind down after a very long day."

SURELY YOU'RE HAPPY ABOUT THE APPOINTMENT?

Susan glared up into the twin pools of blue light that glowed in Death's eye sockets. "Grandfather. You're taking an _interest_. Whenever you get involved, things get even more complicated than necessary."

AH, YES. COMPLICATIONS. Death looked down at the bowl of salty things on the table, which had begun to move. 

Susan saw it too, and groaned, "Oh, no, not the rat too...."

A bony nose peeked up over the rim of the bowl. SNH, SNH, SNH....

Death absently handed the Death of Rats a pretzel, or what Susan hoped was a pretzel, as he continued, I DARESAY YOU ARE FEELING SOME ANXIETY OVER THE... DISENGAGEMENT.

"Whether or not that's true is no particular business of yours --"

CONCLUSIONS AND DEPARTURES, SUSAN, ARE ENTIRELY OUR BUSINESS.

Susan stared. " 'Our' business?"

YES. IN FACT, THERE IS A JOB TO BE DONE TONIGHT....

Death reached into the folds of his robe and drew out a slim hourglass -- a lifetimer, Susan recognized immediately. Its falling sand had almost entirely drained away, leaving only a thin trickle to skid down the inside of the glass toward its definitive end. Etched into the side was the name THOM CHANDLER.

HE LIVES A FEW BLOCKS FROM HERE, said Death. FOR NOW.

"Oh, _no,_" said Susan, pushing back her stool and standing up. "You're not getting me into this. You're Death -- _you_ do the duty. The last thing I need tonight is to go chasing around after someone about to buy the cabbage plot--"

IT MAY DO YOU SOME GOOD TO THINK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE FOR A WHILE, YOU KNOW.

"Like what? Like, oh, death? The end of life? Extinguishment of the vital flame? Nice little morbid things like that?"

The little morbid thing currently scuttling about the table started to root through the snack bowl for another pretzel, using the handle of its tiny scythe to hook through the loops. Susan watched the rat, and winced.

PERHAPS I SHOULD HAVE SAID, THINK ABOUT SOME_ONE _ ELSE. Death leaned forward, suddenly solemn. THIS ONE MAY REQUIRE SOME SENSITIVITY....

"Which you don't have."

Death gave her a look that indicated he was reevaluating her own possession of that particular quality. Susan twitched under the glare. 

"Listen," she sighed, "I'm not sure why it's important for me to take this --"

Death handed her the lifetimer. LIVE AND LEARN, he said. ODD ADVICE FROM ME, I KNOW.

She hesitantly wrapped her hands around the hourglass, which, in a weird, undefinable way, tingled under her fingers. The lifetimers weren't precisely physical, but that was the weight of a life she could feel in her hands, slowly slipping away.

The weight was painfully insubstantial.

"Where is he?" she asked dully.

Death said, NINE BLOCKS RIMWISE, IN ABOUT TWELVE MINUTES.

She pulled her coat back on and tucked the lifetimer into one pocket. Her hair, to her annoyance, was already loosening from its governess' -- no, teacher's -- bun, and clouding out into its natural lightning-shock frizz. And she knew without looking that her sensible dress would have suddenly acquired a good deal of black lace. The Duty, as her family knew to call it, had a few particular ideas about workplace fashion. 

Against all the mounting evidence, Susan nevertheless asked, "Are you sure I ought to be taking this?"

DEAD CERTAIN. HA, HA.

Death was grinning -- not that he had much choice in the matter. Susan managed to smile back, although it was stiff and slightly strained, and then held out her right hand. The scythe materialized in her grip, shimmering in eerie ways as light fell across the blade and shivered into tiny pieces.

She didn't notice, but the pose earned her a (were)wolf whistle from across the room.

"All right, then," she said. "I'll be back."

I'D HOPE SO, Death said to himself as she walked out. YOU HAVEN'T EVEN HAD YOUR DRINK....

The Death of Rats, who'd been observing all this from behind the snack bowl, finally raised his head and said thoughtfully, SQUEAK?

Death sat there for a moment and thought. YES, SHE'S STILL HESITATING. COULD YOU GO ALONG IN CASE THERE'S ANY TROUBLE?

SQUEAK! The Death of Rats snapped off a perfect salute. 

Death looked down at his little helper, and, before letting him go off after Susan, heaved a spectral sigh. I'M STILL WONDERING IF ALL THIS IS A GOOD IDEA, he mused.

The Death of Rats let out a snort of laughter and pointed with the scythe at the ongoing squabble behind them, which, its own slanted way, answered the question. The zombie had grabbed the uncoordinated ghoul and smacked its head precisely into the center of the macabre little dartboard.

Death grinned again. AH, YES, he said knowingly. BULLSEYE.

------ to be continued, as Susan finds herself up against a reluctant ghost....


	3. Chapter 3

And chapter 3, at last! This one got a little moody, but plotwise I suppose it was inevitable (and given the news, I wasn't feeling much up to laughing tonight). Part 4, the conclusion, will, hopefully, be following this soon. 

* * *

Susan could _feel_ something following her.

She'd only made it a block away when the sense crept up on her, of a vague, scuttling sort of shape, and at first she was vaguely unsettled, until she heard the clicking footsteps and the faint sound of a swishing cloak. She gritted her teeth and turned around.

"All right, he put you up to this, didn't he?"

SQUEAK....

"Yes, I know he means well, he always does _try,_ but he never actually gets it. He thinks this is going to make me feel better?" She flourished the hourglass at the Death of Rats, fuming quietly. "He thinks this counts as a distraction? And you're along to keep me company?"

_SQUEAK._

"I don't need scarcasm right now, thank you," Susan muttered. The rat, as much as it could, made a face at her.

She glared at the hourglass, which was nearly drained, and then back into the street. For a few minutes nothing important was visible. Then she squinted. A distant shape had begun to lumber into view in the distance, gradually picking up speed.

Susan edged somewhat _sideways,_ moving out of anyone's view, and stood in the alcove of a nearby building to watch. 

"This is it, isn't it?" she murmured.

The rat, for once, said nothing, just crouched beside her and waited.

The oncoming carriage was pulled by two horses at a reasonably fast clip -- not too fast for city traffic, but quick enough that bystanders would need to get out of the way and stay there. Susan watched it approach, watched its lanterns swinging....

SQUEAK, the Death of Rats said quietly.

Another figure had emerged from a side street, pushing a cart. He was tall, thin, harried-looking; he was working late, and not paying quite enough attention....

Instinct crowded out knowledge of the inevitable, and made Susan shout, "Look out!"

She was still out of perceptible range, though, and so he didn't look up, not until the horses had reared and the clattering collision sent the cart flying, and he stumbled....

At the moment she heard a crack against the stones, the last grains of sand dropped through the hourglass.

Susan shut her eyes for a moment, then hefted the scythe. "All right," she muttered grimly. "Let's get this over with."

The Death of Rats ran after her as she stalked toward the fallen man -- and it was truly a stalk, the shape of her movements slowly changing as she approached. She went straight past the driver of the carriage, who had quickly clambered out and was fussing about in panic. The occupants, Susan saw with disgust, looked as though they merely wanted to get away from the scene of the accident.

_Does no one care?_ she thought viciously, and looked down at the shade of the young man, who was slowly getting up, holding a head to his forehead in an echo of pain that would, soon enough, become insignificant. 

THOM CHANDLER? she said, feeling a tiny shiver at the sound of the Voice issuing from her throat. She hadn't even thought about doing it; it had just happened....

"What?" he mumbled, peering up at her. "What's going on? I just saw a--"

He turned around. The horses were prancing back and forth in nervousness, and the driver was still fluttering about, clearly unsure of what to do. Thom took in the tableau of the shocked bystanders, the merchandise scattered away from his cart, and, finally, his own shape lying still on the ground -- and for a few seconds, there was merely shocked silence.

Then he leapt up, shouting.

"No! This cannot be happening -- tell me this isn't happening--"

He reached desperately toward Susan, as if to grip her shoulders, but he lurched right past -- or through -- and let out a faint moan, his hands grasping at nothing.

"I'm sorry," Susan said, her voice descending back into its normal range as she awkwardly tried to find something to say. That look on his face was making this difficult. "But yes."

"You --" He stared at her, suddenly seeing the silver curve of her blade. "You've got the -- you're...."

DEATH? "Yes."

The panic in his eyes flashed over to anger. "Then... you can do something about this, right? Put me back? You -- you must -- do it now!"

Susan gripped the scythe tighter in her hands. "That's not what I do."

He backed up a couple steps. Susan watched emotions flash through his hazel eyes, ending in a horrified muddle. "Oh, no. Then -- it'll just be over, and they'll be --"

_They?_ she wondered briefly, and then lost the thought --

-- because Thom had turned around and bolted.

Susan was so surprised that she stood there dumbly for a good three or four seconds, gaping, before turning to the Death of Rats and demanding, "What _now?"_

He looked irritated, and jabbed a bony paw in the direction Thom's shade had fled. Susan, never having had to deal with a runaway spirit before, still stared after him in shock for another handful of seconds before gripping her skirts with one hand and setting off down the street.

A small voice in the back of her head muttered, _This is really not what I had in mind for the night...._

Ghosts, Susan was discovering, could move _fast._

She didn't even use the word "ghost" that often; she'd rarely seen spirits persist long enough for them to pick up the term. The few times she'd had to do this, she merely had to show up, wave the scythe, and that was it....

Well, it was never that "merely", but that was the idea. And none of them lingered. Certainly none of them _ran._

Susan dashed between the few pedestrians still out at this hour, carefully keeping the scythe as far away from them as possible, and trying to track the faint trail she could sense between Thom's body and his runaway spectral self. She knew she could probably just whip the scythe down through it and have done with this, but that wasn't how things were done. So she ran, stopping every few yards for the rat to catch up, then finally hefted him onto her shoulder and continued.

SQUEAK -- SQUEAK! the rat suddenly insisted, gesturing down an alley with his own tiny scythe. She turned down the narrow passageway, seeing nothing, then glanced up. A faint gray shimmer sat on the sill of a third-story window.

Susan heaved a sigh. She knew she could do all sorts of abnormal things -- walk through walls, stop time, use _that_ voice -- but she couldn't float, or at least she didn't think so, and this was no time to experiment. "Where's the stairwell?" she asked aloud.

The rat glanced around, then pointed at a half-hidden doorway. Susan walked in and started to clamber upstairs. Habit made her jiggle the doorhandle when she got there; it was locked, and for a moment she stared at it like any ordinary person against an obstacle. For just a moment, she was. Then she took a breath and was something else.

She hated doing this, sometimes; she knew she _could_ just walk into any room she chose to, but she had no idea where she was or who lived here, and it felt like an invasion. When she ducked through the walls of the room, she instinctively tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

The Death of Rats made an exasperated sound as he hopped down to the floor. "Yes, I _know_ no one can see me..." she replied, sighing. He made no further comment as she looked around.

The boarding house loft was small but comfortable; someone had gone through some trouble to make it homey. Candles burned on the mantlepiece, and two small beds, each of them occupied by indistinct shapes, sat near the fireplace. A third, unused, sat slightly farther away.

Susan glanced over it all, then at the faint shape in the window. He was taking in slow gulps of breath, an old and now-unnecessary habit. "Hurts..." he said to no one in particular.

"Go running off from yourself like that, and yes, it probably will," Susan said sharply. Thom raised his head. "You're supposed to let go, you know."

She'd worried that he might try to run again, but this time he swung his legs inside the window ledge and faced her, trembling with anger. "Let go? Some nob comes along and runs me down, and it's over? Just like that?"

"I don't decide how," Susan said softly. "I just do."

Light gleamed off her scythe as she stepped closer. Thom backed up as far as he could against the windowframe, shutting his eyes.

Susan paused before him, watching the faint outline of his form tremble, and she lowered the scythe. "What is it?" she finally said, her voice low.

He looked back across the room. Susan turned and heard a faint snoring noise from the beds, saw a girl's hand as she turned over in her sleep.

"My sisters," he said. "I take care of them. I take in whatever money I can and... and we get by, barely."

Susan swallowed. "Is there anyone else?"

Thom shook his head. "It's just...." 

Words failed him; he sketched out a circle in the air, encompassing him and the two sleeping girls across the room.

_THERE'S NO JUSTICE,_ said an odd but apt memory in the back of Susan's mind. _THERE'S JUST US._

She tried to dislodge the echo from between her ears, but it still lingered as she said uncomfortably, "There's nothing else you can do. Your time was up--"

"My time?" Thom cried out. "What time? I'm nineteen! I've got my whole life waiting--"

NO, YOU DON'T. THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS.

He shrank back from her and the hypnotic blue light in her eyes, which blazed and then faded as he whispered, "What _are _you, really?" 

Susan weighed her options. "I really am Death," she said. "Sometimes. When I have to be."

The Death of Rats, who had been inspecting the corners of the room for any potential business, stopped and looked up at her. She glanced at the tiny skeleton. For the first time, she wondered if he ever had to go through this -- wondered if Death himself ever felt a flash of guilt at the critical moment -- or if that was just her, the human part, the sense of responsibility that never let anything lie....

She looked behind her again.

_Two small children, tucked in their beds, unaware that someone was leaving...._

"They'll just have to stand on their own," she said, almost to herself.

"There's nothing for them to stand _on!" _Thom shouted. "Don't you get it?"

"But you can't stay!" Her eyes blazed again, but this time without the blue; it was simply human frustration, anger at the world. "There's nothing I can _do!"_

"What are you when you _aren't_ Death, then?" Thom's voice was bitter. "Don't you understand how it is for the rest of us who have to live in the world?"

Her grandfather didn't. She knew that. Susan had watched Death try to see how the other half lived, and he'd always, in some small but critical way, get it wrong. That was why, she realized, he'd sent her here. He expected her to do something.

Susan looked at the children, and asked, "What are their names?"

"Kate and Sarah," Thom said softly. "They're twelve and nine. Ten next Thursday."

Susan bent down to brush a loose lock of hair off Sarah's cheek. The beginnings of a thought pricked at her. It was a small, simple thing, but possibly....

"I can't promise anything," she said firmly. "But --"

Thom sighed a little. "Which means you'll talk to someone, maybe, and then..."

Susan turned her gaze fully on him. She had the ability to truly _focus_ like this, and being under such immediate, attentive scrutiny usually stunned her conversation partners into silence. Thom was no exception. "I will do something. Is there anywhere they can stay in the meantime?"

He stuttered for a moment. "With Miss Cooper downstairs, I think, for a couple days... Kate likes her cat...."

That little detail sealed it for Susan, somehow. She looked down at Kate and Sarah and then gently gestured for Thom to step away. He drifted back toward the window, looking more insubstantial than he had just moments before.

Susan sighed a little, looking at the blade still in her hands.

"You didn't really answer my question," he said distantly. "What are you, when you're not Death?"

"A teacher," she said.

Thom looked at her, laughing once, astonished. "So how'd you get stuck with this?"

The voice, again, just happened, as Susan met his gaze and said, FAMILY.

He gave her a sad, understanding smile. Then he turned to face her fully and stood still.

Susan didn't make him wait. She took a breath, raised the scythe, and arced it down through a space of sudden emptiness.

For a moment, she didn't move. The Death of Rats walked back up beside her, saying nothing, but giving her a rather significant look. "I know, I know," she muttered eventually. "So I took an interest, too."

SQUEAK....

"Yes, but they're different. Gawain and Twyla will have someone, but these two...."

She stopped. The Death of Rats, she suspected, would have been blinking innocuously if he could. 

Susan decided not to say anything else. She just released the scythe, which vanished as mysteriously as it had come, and straightened her suddenly plain dress, while her hair wound itself back up into a sensible style. Before long, she could see a faint reflection of herself in the window, looking for all the world like a governess again, or a teacher, or someone the children and the neighbors could trust, who'd just had to come to the door with bad news.

Susan went downstairs to find Miss Cooper first, and then went back up to get Kate and Sarah, and stayed until she was sure they'd be all right for the night before leaving.

She made note of the address on the way out.

---- to be concluded....


	4. Chapter 4

...and our conclusion. I like this scene. ;) I actually wrote an epilogue at the school, but ditched it and rearranged -- somehow, there's just no way to end it besides that final line.

These past couple stories have been an interesting exercise in free-writing, actually. I have no beta readers and I'm not doing that much, the preceding paragraph notwithstanding, to edit this before posting. Since my modus operandi tends to default to "edit everything to death", cranking this out in a few hours and throwing it directly out for public consumption feels oddly liberating. There's nothing like flying by the seat of your pants to get the creative energy going....

Anyway, I hope you enjoy. :)

* * *

Several nights later, back at the Gaiter's, Susan began to turn down the beds in Gawain and Twyla's room for the last time. No one had said much that evening as she'd helped them get into their nightclothes (Gawain snatched the shirt and drawers away and did it himself; Twyla mutely let Susan pull the slip over her head). It was, in fact, quite oddly silent until the children crawled into bed, and Twyla suddenly asked again, "Are you _really_ leaving?"

Susan plumped the pillows behind Twyla and answered, for the fourth time that day, "Yes. Tomorrow morning."

"Is that 'morning' as in 'really early', or 'after going out for a walk' kind of early, or...."

"Gawain," she said, a little sternly. He made a face and slouched down under the blankets, muttering to himself.

"What was that?" she said calmly.

"Nothing."

"If it were nothing, I wouldn't have heard the words 'stupid', 'running off' and 'petunia'. Although I'm mystfied how 'petunia' fits in."

He shoved the blankets back under his chin and said, "Our last governess liked petunias. She wore them in her hat. We'll probably get someone else dumb who likes petunias and knitting and wants to tell us Mr. Bunnsy stories."

"You'll just have to show her to the library instead," Susan said, meaning the real one, the bookcase she'd stocked with historical volumes, surprisingly bloodthirsty fairy tales *, and an antique collection called Stories for Small Children, meant to teach its audience all sorts of Sensible Morals. Susan had inscribed in its margins a number of pithy and far-more-sensible commentaries, which had quickly taught the children more about critical reading than most people ever learned.

[ * Surprisingly, anyway, if you hadn't _met_ the fairies in question.]

She didn't bother to tell Gawain not to call their governess "dumb." It may very well have been true, after all. She'd knew she'd taught them enough tact not to say such things to the wrong audience, and if she hadn't taught them how to detect unintelligent people and handle them accordingly, she hadn't been doing her job.

"Will you be back to visit uth?" Twyla said. Before Susan even had a chance to shoot her a glare, she piped up again with, "Us."

Susan looked aside a little. "Perhaps." 

She was tempted to add, "And if you start lisping at your new governess, I _will_ come back and make you speak around marbles until you learn to enunciate," but she feared that would encourage Twyla to heretofore-unreached levels of unintelligibility.

Gawain sat up in bed, bouncing a little on the mattress. "Maybe you can come back and take us to the park on Sundays?"

"I imagine your new governess will be doing that."

"Yes, but she won't know how to scare off the bears."

Susan sighed, picturing the mischevious grin Gawain got every time he stepped on a crack in the sidewalk. "You'll just have to stop making them follow you. They get just as irritated at it as I do."

"But what about the real monsters?" Twyla said, her lower lip trembling a little.

Susan sat down on the edge of the little girl's bed. "Remember what I told you?"

Twyla sucked in her lips as she thought, then puffed out a breath and recited, "Bogeymen hate blankets, vampires are scared of fire--"

"And garlic--" Gawain added.

"The monsters in the closet won't bother us if we pick up everything so they can't follow the trail back to the bed--"

"And stakes," Gawain said, still thinking about vampires. "Wooden stakes. Can I break one off the back of Father's chair? The rungs are just the right size."

"No," Susan said. "A candle is all you need."

"That's no fun."

"-- and monsters under the bed can be whacked on the head with a slipper," Twyla said. She looked up at Susan. "But sometimes they're mean, and I can't do the Voice on them."

"You don't need the Voice." Susan helped Twyla settle back down into bed, and tucked the corners of the blanket firmly around her. "A good, strong tone of authority will do the trick with any monster."

And most people, she thought privately. You'll learn.

Twyla thought that one over. "You mean I can really just yell at them and they'll go away?" she asked.

"Not yell," Susan said. "Be firm. You're the one in charge."

"This is _my _room," Gawain declared to the ceiling, practicing. "And if you don't get out of here, I'll -- I'll --"

"Get you with the poker!" Twyla shouted, and dissolved into giggles.

Gawain, suddenly serious, sat straight up again. "Wait. Where's the poker? You're not taking it with you, are you?"

Susan raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised. "What? No, that belongs to --"

She glanced at the fireplace. Beside the cozy hearth, on a wrought-iron stand, was a soot-brush, dustpan, and, standing tall, the legendary poker. It wasn't anything that remarkable; it was just a pointed length of metal, with a well-worn handle and a significant dent in the middle. The Gaiters had tried to buy a new one after The Incident with the monster in the cellar, but Susan just bent it back as straight as she could, and said, "It'll be fine" -- which it was. Better than fine, as a matter of fact. The monsters recognized the dent as a particularly graphic symbol of what she could do with that poker, and now gave it an even wider berth.

The poker itself was a symbol. She knew that as well as the monsters did. And she knew Gawain and Twyla did, too. 

Sometimes, she thought, symbols could be very empowering... as long as you understood what they represented, and why they worked, and if you could make them your own. 

Susan got up. Feeling a certain sense of ceremony, she slowly lifted the poker from its resting place. Gawain, whose wide eyes shone in the flickering firelight, watched her in amazement as she strode back to his bed and held out the poker, handle-first.

"That belongs to you," Susan said.

Gawain gaped at it for a good long moment, then slowly, almost solemnly, curled his fingers around the handle. Susan let go and watched him heft it. The metal didn't glint in the light; it looked sooty and battered and wholly ordinary... and solid, and real, and very, very useful.

She could feel a shadow behind her think again, and scurry out of the room.

"Wow," Twyla said to her brother, awed. "You're like a _knight."_

Gawain grinned, but, quite sensibly, didn't start flailing the poker about in midair like a play sword. Susan approved. She smiled a little, and for the first time she could remember, kissed him gently on the top of the head. "Goodnight, then, Sir Gawain."

He smiled and scooted back under the blankets, murmuring "goodnight" back to her, as Twyla behind her suddenly said, "Miss Susan?"

She turned. "Yes?"

The girl held out her arms. Susan blinked, somehow startled, then bent down and gave her a good, long hug. Twyla sniffled once, quietly, but it was Susan who had to swipe at her cheek after she'd said "goodnight" into the girl's hair and stood back up. 

Behind her, Gawain was already asleep. It only took a few moments for Twyla to drop off as well. Susan watched them there for a minute before beginning to put out the fire.

As she worked, there came a little clicking noise, which she pointedly ignored until it had made its way up beside her. Susan, poker-less, jabbed at the logs with the handle of the dustpan and sighed a little, speaking quietly. "What is it?"

SQUEAK?

"Yes, I've got the letter from Madam Frout. I'm delivering it to Miss Cooper in the morning."

SQUEAK....

"She was a little cross, yes." Susan scratched under her other eye, which, she thought firmly, was not wet. "It was rather a lot for me to ask as a new employee, but I insisted...."

SNH, SNH.

"Well, I may have told _them_ that a simple authoritative voice would do just as well, but--"

But -- I made a promise, she thought. And I didn't want anything to fall through. Sometimes, the Voice did come in handy.

She thought fleetingly of the look on Madam Frout's face when she'd used it. Her headmistress had indeed been startled by Susan's request for a meeting, and her subsequent declaration that Katherine and Sarah Chandler of 120 Wixon Alley were to be given full scholarships -- tuition and board both -- from now until their graduation from the Academy, and that they would both be, when the time arose, in Miss Susan's class. Startled, yes, but accommodating. Susan had made it a request she couldn't refuse.

The scholarship would help, Susan thought. It would have to help. Of course, it still wouldn't be easy. She'd been right when she told Thom they'd need to learn to stand on their own -- they didn't have any choice. But she could at least give them somewhere to stand. 

The glowing embers had begun to die away. Susan backed up, closed the screen, and rose, ignoring for the moment the faint blue glow outlining the Death of Rats. The only other illumination was the oil lamp on the opposite wall, which she went to and dimmed, just to the point where it would still spook off the more jittery ghouls. Besides, it gave her enough light to look into the room one more time.

Some children, she thought absently as she watched Gawain turn over, sleep with teddy bears. Others -- well... 

The blankets had moved aside as he did, uncovering the weapon he still had clenched in one hand.

Others, she thought, sleep with pokers.

She was sure the next governess would be horrified, but would never be able to break him of the habit. He and his sister had both, in fact, picked up a number of unnerving tendencies, which she knew would stick -- the urge to question everything, interest in all sorts of things supposedly too "grown up" for them, stubbornness, independent thinking....

She smiled a little. If she had half as much luck with Kate and Sarah, things would turn out all right.

"Yes," she murmured aloud, half to the Death of Rats and half to herself. "They'll be fine."

SQUEAK.

Susan blinked. She had eventually learned to understand what the rat meant by his squeaks and sniggers, but rarely if ever had she heard him pay her a genuine compliment. 

She looked down at the little figure, and after a moment, said, "Thank you. Honestly. " She paused. "But don't let that go to your head."

SQUEAK!

"No, I won't either." 

And with that, she left the room, quietly closed the door behind her, and went to finish packing her bags. She planned to be gone by dawn, before Gawain and Twyla awoke. 

_CONCLUSIONS AND DEPARTURES,_ said Death in memory,_ ARE ENTIRELY OUR BUSINESS --_

And so, Susan thought, are graceful exits.


End file.
